


Soap

by ohgodmyeyes



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: (that means he has no natural limbs whatsoever), Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anakin Has A Nice Dick, Anakin Needs a Soapy Handjob, Anakin Skywalker Needs a Hug, Anakin is 60+, Background Luke/Reader, Body Worship, Canon-Typical Amputation, Caregiving, Cheating, Disability, Domestic, F/M, Insecurity, Intimacy, Kissing, Meandering, Outtake, Reader is unprofessional, Reader-Insert, Relationship(s), Romance, Scars, Self-Indulgent, Showers, and moderate-to-severe lung disease, handjobs, probably not your jam, slow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:21:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28945812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohgodmyeyes/pseuds/ohgodmyeyes
Summary: Being Anakin Skywalker's personal support worker has its advantages... and one of those advantages happens to be that you get to help him in the shower.It's a good thing you've finally come to a mutual (if tentative) understanding of just what your 'relationship' entails, isn't it?
Relationships: Anakin Skywalker/Reader
Comments: 23
Kudos: 48





	Soap

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually a chapter of [Disassembly](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26877496/chapters/65579827) I'm not going to use. It's too wordy, too porny, too slow, and too cheesy, and it doesn't do anything for the plot. It's completely, unabashedly self-indulgent, and it tells us nothing about the story that we don't already know or haven't already inferred.
> 
> I sure like it, though, so maybe someone else will too. If not... well, that's why it isn't part of the actual story, lol.

"I'm a fucking mess right now," Anakin said, as you finally (and with great reluctance) pulled back from him. You were still standing in his kitchen, still holding onto each other... whether holding onto each other was something you should have been doing or not. For all of your arguing that morning, you guessed he must have missed kissing you as much as you'd missed kissing him, because it took you a long time to separate after coming together. 

Everything about being this close to him, you thought against your own better judgment, was marvellous— from way his lips felt on yours to the sensation of your tongue passing over the fillings in his teeth. Despite the cigarette smoke and the stale liquor, you loved how he smelled and tasted too, not to mention the way those deceptively-adept muscles in his core tensed up pleasantly when you pressed yourself into him. You couldn't help but notice that he was smiling at you right now; it wasn't an especially outgoing smile, but it was there. You certainly appreciated it. 

"It doesn't bother me," you told him, hoping to mirror his expression. "Sometimes people are messes."

He chuckled, if somewhat flatly. "How am I supposed to think you're doing anything _other_ than being kind to me when you say things like that?"

You laughed right back. Allowing yourselves the indulgence of being so close (and so candid) with one another had seemed to dissolve some of the tension you knew you'd both been feeling. You were grateful for it; between Anakin and Luke, too many of your interactions these days were governed by strain and anxiety. 

Your hands were still on his waist, so you gave him a squeeze. "I'm not nearly as kind as you make me out to be. Don't you remember me telling you you're nice to kiss?" It felt like a long time ago, now, since you'd first said that. It was still true; it became more and more obvious to you the more often you kissed him— and fucked him, and held him, and let him hold you. It made you feel terrible about yourself in many respects; however, it also made you want him more.

He shook his head, and his smile faded. "It still doesn't make any sense— _none_ of this makes any sense. You—"

 _"Stop,"_ you said, emphatically but also gently. You wished he didn't find it so unbelievable that someone besides his dead wife might appreciate him the way you did. "Now that you're awake and you've had something to eat, do you think you might want me to help you... well, be a little bit _less_ of a mess?" The knot still residing in your stomach seemed to pull itself tighter as you finished asking. 

It appeared to take him a moment to understand just what you meant (which was understandable; you were hardly ever coy with him), because he offered you a curious look before glancing in the direction of the hallway. 

"...Oh," he said. "You mean...?" He trailed off, as if he were afraid to suggest the wrong thing.

"...A shower," you finished for him, with a nod. 

It was only very recently that he'd started to accept your assistance in that endeavour, and you knew his concession was strictly out of necessity— due to the condition of his lungs, to be precise. That meant his comfort was fragile; however, helping him wash _was_ a part of your job. Since it had to get done, what better a time to do it than now? You'd been looking forward to it all week, frankly, and after your conversation this morning, you felt more than a little emboldened: With no reason not to touch him (not with the way you'd chosen to look at things, anyway), touching him was exactly what you wanted to do. 

Luckily, he must have felt the same way about it; after a few moments of silence, he pulled the rest of the way back from you. You thought at first that he was going to withdraw entirely; go off to his room, or sit back down at the table with another cigarette. He didn't, though; instead, he walked out of the kitchen and down the hallway, motioning with his hook-ended arm (the one he'd wrapped around you while you'd kissed; the one whose improbably precise, metallic touch was as unique as the rest of him) for you to follow along.

You did.

When you entered the bathroom only a few steps behind him, he was already tugging his shirt off with his opposite hand— the right one; the one with the sleek, black, polymer palm and the mechanical fingers that moved _almost_ like real ones. His back was facing you as he pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it to the floor; when he turned to look at you, he was nearly smiling again.

You paced up to him, and put your hands back on his waist. You thumbed his skin (and, inevitably, his scars) while you took the opportunity to look him up and down. Maybe you shouldn't have examined him so enthusiastically, because his breathing changed as you did— were you making him anxious? If you were, it wasn't what you intended; however, you also more than understood.

"Is this okay?" you asked, toying tentatively with the waistband of his shorts.

"You're just doing your job," he said, without any particular intonation. Even his face had come free of any trace of emotion; the only thing to betray him right now was the way he breathed... and really, that could easily have had more to do with his lungs than how he felt. Anakin, you reflected irreverently, might have been one of the most inscrutable people you'd ever met.

"You're right," you agreed. "I'm just doing my job."

He nodded approvingly, and so you went ahead and thrust his shorts down over his hips. They brushed up against his cock on the way, which was still half-hard from the affection you'd shown one another in the kitchen. 

You bit down on your lip, and— once you'd freed his prosthetic legs from the last of his clothes— guided him over to the chair on which he always sat when you helped him bathe. He was facing the faucets, and you were facing him as you bent over to begin. 

"Arms first, or legs first?" you asked, because if someone had to take you apart and help you the way you helped Anakin, you'd want to feel as if you had some agency... even if the only choice you really got to make had to do with which parts of you were removed first.

"Not that it matters," he pointed out presciently, "but you can go ahead and start with the arms."

You did just that; peeled away one-by-one the faux-leather wrappings that helped hold his forearms to his biceps, and placed the prostheses carefully on the floor by your feet. You ran your hand over the skin on what remained of his right arm in particular, and looked at his face as you told him, "This isn't as bad as I thought it would be."

He knew you meant the skin on the ends of his stumps, which nearly always looked terrible after Anakin's being left to his own devices for a few days. It was certainly irritated right now— obviously it had been encased for too long without maintenance— but not with quite the severity you would normally have expected.

"I took the left one off at night, and the right one off during the day... or for most of it, anyway," he said. "It was a fucking bitch to do for nearly a week, but I knew you'd be pissed off at me when you came back if it looked like I didn't at least try." He scoffed and seemed to chide himself, "So much for getting you out of my damn head."

That made you smile. "Thanks, Anakin," you said, even though he had benefitted more from his effort than you. You knew very well how much of a challenge (and how time-consuming) it was for him to take his limbs on-and-off unassisted, and you were appreciative of the fact that he'd done so while you'd been gone... especially given that he seemed to have done it just to make you happy.

He only shrugged, though, and so you— still smiling— bent over the edge of the tub to take off his legs as well. You found that the skin there was not in quite as good condition as the skin on his arms; however, it still wasn't as badly-aggravated as you'd anticipated.

Before you could say anything about it, you heard from over your head, "I took _them_ off every night, too— well, except for last night." You already knew that was because he'd passed out drunk on his sofa instead of going to bed.

Without thinking, you said to him irreverently as you stood up to tote his limbs out into the hallway (they were better off out there; the steam from the shower was no good for their internal mechanisms), "I still wish you'd called me."

"To watch me get drunk on the couch?" he asked as you returned, sounding mildly incredulous. 

You hesitated. That wasn't precisely what you'd meant. "Not exactly," you said, slowly and without elaborating. You might have come by to join him, you thought, but you didn't tell him so. You were no stranger, by this point, to drinking with Anakin— you liked the openness he displayed when he was under the influence, if nothing else.

He didn't say anything more, so you perched on the edge of the tub and leaned over to start to fiddle with the taps. Anakin liked the water to be very hot; since you'd begun helping to bathe him, you'd grown accustomed to it yourself... almost to the point of enjoying it as much as he did. Even Luke had made mention to you, in passing, how much more steam you tended to generate with your own showers at home in recent weeks.

Once the water coming from the faucet had reached an agreeable temperature, you stood up to retrieve the shower head from its little plastic holster near the ceiling. You allowed yourself a moment to peer down at Anakin while trying your best not to make it too obvious that you were doing so. You knew he despised being stared at (especially in the absence of his limbs); however, you couldn't stop yourself from stealing a look anyway. You'd seen him this way before, of course... but it wasn't a sight you thought you were likely to tire of.

Your fondness for his body wasn't simply because it was different, though; on the contrary, it was because you thought Anakin was beautiful. You'd always liked the way he looked, if only on a subconscious level (it was the resemblance he shared with Luke, after all, which had endeared him to you at all in the first place), but recently your attraction to him had seemed to accelerate— not unlike the intensity of a good snowstorm, or a very strong wind. The revelation, somehow, had been at once both slow and jarring; however, you were finished denying it, at least to yourself. 

Each and every scar and divot adorning his torso stood out sharply in the warm, white bathroom light. The marks, lines, patches, and jagged swaths left by the explosion that had injured him ranged in hue from a dark, dusty-looking pink to the same stark whiteness of the relatively unblemished skin on his back. 

His chest and his shoulders were broad and adamantly strong; as strong as those core muscles he'd been tensing against you as you'd pulled him close in the kitchen. His apparent strength had always struck you; it was the reason you'd found him intimidating when you had first met him. Even the abrupt remnants of his long-severed limbs were insistent and sturdy, in part thanks to his own stubbornness. Given Anakin's age and pulmonary condition (and overall gloomy disposition), you were consistently impressed with both his willingness and his ability to maintain some semblance of his previous strength. 

Even in your line of work, you'd never before met anyone who didn't have a limb to speak of... and ever since the first time you'd ever been allowed to take Anakin entirely apart, you'd perceived in his physique an irrepressible allure. It was an attraction you knew he regarded as inexplicable, but whose existence was evidenced by the fact that you, as he himself had put it, 'jumped into his lap' at every opportunity.

Again, he'd intimidated you when you had first met him, and in some ways he still did. More than that, though, you'd come to realize that he _entranced_ you. Whether you were being granted the privilege of running your fingertips across the skin on his stumps, or that of being touched by the contrasting, utterly intriguing technological miracles he used instead of hands, Anakin thrilled you in more ways than one. 

You wished he could see it that way, but he didn't— not that you'd yet been brave (or, perhaps, stupid) enough to tell him any of these things outright. 

Just as you began to realize for yourself that your stolen 'glance' had lasted far too long, he looked up and asked you pointedly, _"What?"_

Normally you'd have said 'nothing' or its equivalent before going on to complete whatever task it was you'd been in the middle of when you had first started staring at him. This time, though, you just smiled, and reached out to touch his face with your free hand. You did this before re-directing the water through the shower head; took an extra few moments to enjoy dragging your thumb along the side of his face before venturing to get him wet. 

First he hardened his gaze, but it seemed he couldn't keep that up— soon it softened again, although his shoulders seemed to tense, and he drew what remained of his arms in closely to his body. 

You granted him the reprieve of looking away to turn on the shower head; when you did, you held the stream up to your hand, put that hand near his leg, and let the hot water splash onto it. 

"Is that okay?" you asked. You felt a bit guilty about your staring, now, because you knew that although his body didn't give him a choice in the matter, he didn't like being at anyone's mercy— not even yours.

"It's fine," he answered. You couldn't keep yourself from noticing his cock twitch as your fingers grazed his skin, and the hot water trickled down the inside of his thigh.

You nodded then, and went on to commence getting him wet. You started with his legs, where you found that he tended to appreciate the sensation of the warm water the most. Indeed, he sighed and his shoulders began to relax despite themselves as you continued to work your way up his body with the shower head, leaning in very closely to make sure you reached every last part of him.

You were still standing over him at this point, and when you reached his head, he tilted it back to aid you in soaking his hair, too. You watched the water cascade down his neck and over his chest and back; observed tiny droplets and miniature streams alike as their paths were interrupted by the divots and ridges denoting his scars.

It was then that you noticed him draw in a sharp breath, which made you refocus your gaze on his face. You were using one hand to hold the shower head against his hair, while the other was tangled up in thick, pretty strands of dull amber and salty silver as you made sure the water saturated it thoroughly. The first time you had ever washed his hair for him, you'd taken longer than you'd needed. He'd asked about it then, but this time he didn't say anything at all.

Once he was as wet (and as warm) as he needed to be, you carefully put down the still-running shower head, letting it hang from its hose at the bottom of the bathtub, close to the drain. Although the water wasn't hitting him directly anymore, its heat was producing copious amounts of steam. Entirely without warning, your mind generated an impression of what it might be like to shed your clothes and join him here this way. That thought didn't serve you; you tried to dismiss it, but dismissing it proved difficult.

Without a word, you perched on the edge of the bathtub again, and reached for his soap— men's liquid body wash, to be precise. You had always liked the way it smelled, you thought, as you squeezed some of it into your palm. It was very sharp, with an aquatic undertone... a little bit obstinate, really, which you guessed suited him. 

As you pressed your palm against his chest and began to rub circles into his skin, you told him for the very first time, "I like your soap."

"It's the same soap I've always used," he said dismissively, closing his eyes and taking in as deep a breath as he could while you continued to lather up his torso.

"It's nice," you reiterated, and that was when you realized that his cock wasn't only half-hard anymore— it had stiffened up significantly since you'd turned on the water, and was now making its presence painfully evident. You wanted very much to grab onto it, but something in the back of your mind told you not to... not yet, anyway.

Instead, you continued sliding your palm over his skin. Small circles turned into bigger ones as the lather from the soap grew, and you slowed your pace. You never used a sponge or a cloth, not with Anakin— you wanted to feel your fingertips glide across his skin, and he wanted to feel it too. He didn't have to say anything for you to know.

The skin overtop his rib cage was almost unnaturally smooth, but it segued into a series of jagged ridges and deep pockmarks as you approached the centre of his chest. He might not have liked his scars, but you certainly appreciated them. This was partly because of the way they felt, and partly because of what they told you about Anakin: He was brave, you thought; more than that, he was persistent and highly adaptive— strong, in more than just one way.

Your hand was on his stomach by then, fingers pressing into the unassuming remnants of those perfect abs he'd possessed back when he was closer to your age than his own. You'd seen him that way in photos; it wasn't at all difficult to reconcile his present body with the one he'd had up until he'd been blown to pieces. 

All things considered, you preferred him this way— not because you were strange or because you liked that he'd had to suffer, but because his body was his reality; an integral part of what made him who he was, whether he liked it or not. What kind of person might Anakin have been by the time he reached his sixties, if he hadn't been injured? 

You couldn't know, and neither could he, because there were no alternate realities— they simply didn't exist. Anakin was who he was, inside and out; for better or for worse. The fact of the matter was that you'd come to be drawn to who he was _right now_ — not who he 'could have' been, and certainly not who he'd been thirty years prior. His body was, despite its damage, symptomatic of who he was in more ways than he seemed to understand. This was true in every way, from the intense, residual strength he displayed (sometimes without even knowing it) to the unique, purely aesthetic beauty of of his form; beauty that he either couldn't or wouldn't acknowledge.

"I'm running out of ways to tell you I don't understand you," he said, indicating that he _did_ , at least, understand the pleasure you were taking in completing your present task. He didn't open his eyes; hardly moved, in fact.

"Then why don't you try telling me something else?" you suggested, as your hand slid from his lower abdomen and onto his thigh, only barely bypassing that hard-on of his; the one you still hadn't fully acknowledged.

"I— _ah—!_ Something like _what?"_ You couldn't tell whether or not he sounded annoyed.

"Tell me how you feel," you offered anyway, snaking your hand into the very crook of his leg before letting it travel down the length of what remained of that limb, passing it right over the end of his stump. His muscles tensed and his cock twitched again, which inspired within you a warmth that had nothing to do with either the hot water or the steam. 

"Confused," he told you. "...And fucking horny." He shifted on the shower chair, and you witnessed his abs tighten beneath his skin. That made you want to touch his stomach again, so you did exactly that before spreading the soapy lather you'd worked up onto his other leg as well. He was covered in it from his chest down to his stumps by now; he looked incredible. _Perfect._

"Lean forward for me and I'll get your back," you said, to which he acquiesced right away. You stood and then knelt with a single knee on the side of the bath, keeping your opposite foot planted on the floor to steady yourself. After that, you grabbed the soap one more time; squeezed another dollop of it into your hand before starting to rub it onto his shoulders just the same way you'd done with his chest. Once you'd set down the soap, you placed your newly-freed hand on him, too— right atop the centre of his breastbone, ostensibly to help keep him upright... although you both knew very well that it was more for your mutual enjoyment than just that. 

"I still hate myself for this," he reminded you, finally opening up his eyes to look at you. "This isn't something I'm supposed to want." You knew exactly what he meant.

"I'm not supposed to want it either," you told him in return, contrasting your words with the act of pressing your fingers into him hungrily. That made him whimper in a way you'd only ever known Anakin to whimper: It was a rough, quiet sound; something between a muted growl and a desperate moan.

"I'm sorry," he said, and at first you thought he was apologizing for participating with you in whatever it was the two of you had together. 

"It's okay. I know I said you started it, but you were right when you said I hardly even tried to stop—"

"Not for that," he interrupted, turning his head so that the two of you were virtually face-to-face. 

"Then what?" you asked. By now you'd spread that fittingly-scented soap of his all over him— he was warm and slick, and almost entirely coated in lather. As you awaited his answer, you watched the steam cause the bubbles to slide down the length of his body, following the contours of both his musculature and his scars. 

Since it would have been impossible for you to stop yourself from sliding your hands around, you didn't try— from the ridges of his spine to the bumps denoting his rib cage, you ran your fingertips along and across his back. Simultaneously, you allowed your opposite hand free reign of his front. You stroked and prodded and caressed; when you came upon his stomach once again, you found that the back of your hand couldn't help but rub up against the head of his cock. Some of what was leaking out of it stayed on your skin; you knew it was him, because the texture of his essence was markedly different from that of the soap.

After putting forth an obvious effort to even out his breathing, he finally answered, "What I meant is that I'm sorry about the shit I said when you opened up my mail. I was just pissed off; I'd never tell—"

You silenced him with a soft-yet-insistent kiss; when you were sure he wasn't going to keep talking when you stopped, you pulled back just enough so that you had room to speak. "I know you wouldn't," you said. He'd threatened that day to call Veteran's Affairs on you; get you fired. You knew him well enough, though, to know he'd never actually have gone through with it, no matter how upset he was. 

"How do you know?" he asked. Your faces were still so close that you could almost feel his lips moving against yours.

"You're too kind to do something like that." He was, whether he wanted anybody to know it or not.

"Fuck off," he said, without pulling back from you, or otherwise indicating that he in any way actually wanted you to fuck off. You felt a wave of guilt crash into you then, not only because you knew you were only supposed to touch Luke this way, but because of the position into which you'd put Anakin by engaging with him like this. You were supposed to be taking care of him; in many ways, he was at your exclusive disposal— fucking and touching and kissing a physically vulnerable client was the ultimate violation of professional ethics for somebody like you.

That was when you realized that you didn't see Anakin as a 'client' anymore (or even as your boyfriend's dad, for that matter)... which really only made the whole thing that much worse. 

"I want to watch you come for me," you told him, and before you could stop it, your hand was wrapped around the base of his cock. You couldn't tell whether it mitigated or compounded your guilt... but since you were already doing it, it didn't really matter. That was what you told yourself, anyway.

"Here?" he asked. His eyes were wide, although his brows knitted in confusion. "I'm not even— I mean, I don't have—"

"It doesn't matter to me," you said, kissing the side of his mouth. "None of it matters. I just want to watch."

"I was right, then." He sounded uneasy.

"What do you mean?" You kissed him again.

"You do have a weird fucking fetish."

"No, I don't."

"Then what the fuck is wrong with you that you want to jerk off a dismantled fucking cyborg in the goddamned shower?" Now he sounded more confrontational than anxious.

"Fuck off, Anakin," you whispered against his lips, squeezing him determinedly. 

The translucent ghost of a fleeting smile passed over his features at that, and then he finally kissed you back. You began stroking him again; he shut his eyes tightly, and whined into your mouth. You'd fucked him before, of course, but you'd never held onto his cock like _this._ You were finding that you loved the way he felt in your hand.

Anakin's cock had scars just like the rest of his body; if anything, though, those scars only made it more enticing to you. There was one ridge of raised skin in particular that ran down the length of its left side; that scar curled somewhat around the base, and you could always feel it when you fucked him. You loved fucking Anakin, you thought— loved it for exactly what it was and how it felt; to your own shame, you knew you'd have loved it even if your life had been perfect, and your relationship with Luke not in shambles.

He'd stopped kissing you by then, seemingly for the purpose of taking a few deep breaths.

"Are you okay?" you asked, palming his head. Between the soap and his own desire, your hand glided smoothly over him, as if atop a sheet of fresh, wet ice.

 _"Fine,"_ he gasped. "I just— you—"

"Tell me what you want," you interrupted. Right at this moment, you'd have done just about anything for him.

 _"Faster,"_ was all he said— all he needed. It was just like in your dream.

"Faster," you confirmed, and then you obeyed. 

A noise escaped his throat; one that hardly sounded like him. Nevertheless, you knew it meant that what you were doing was making him happy.

"You know what I'm going to do next time?" you asked, letting your fingers trail up and down his back while at the same time tightening your grip on his cock.

"N-no... no, w-what?" His forehead was pressed against yours, and your noses were nestled snugly next to one another. 

"I'm going to get in here with you," you told him. "I'm going to sit between your legs and get wet with you, and then I'm going to play with your cock— do you realize I haven't even tasted you yet?" You hadn't. Every single time you and Anakin had fucked up until now had seemed incidental; something neither of you really wanted to acknowledge, even in the midst of it. It was always over quickly; you never lingered on one another the way you were lingering on him today. Something this morning seemed to have changed your dynamic— made you realize how much more you wanted to do not only _with_ him, but _for_ him, too.

He shouted, then— it was halting and breathy, and utterly involuntary. 

You were more than a little worked-up yourself, so you kept pumping his cock as you went on, "Would you like that, Anakin? Can I suck you off in the shower? I bet you taste like—"

Before you could say 'heaven', it happened; his body jolted in the chair, and all of a sudden your knuckles (and his own stomach and thighs) were coated in him. You looked down just in time to see thick, white strands of his arousal volcano up and over the edge of your hand as you milked him dry. 

He shuddered as he finished, and once his cock's throbbing had begun to slow, you took your hand from it and replaced it on his stomach. This time, you actually were steadying him.

"What... the fuck... has gotten... _into_ you... today?" he gasped.

His inhaler, as always, was within arm's reach of you. You waited a few moments, just listening to him breathe, before discerning that it might be a good idea if you grabbed it for him (after wiping your hand off on a nearby towel, of course). This was by no means an emergency, but you had enough experience with Anakin by now that you knew better than to let it turn into one. His lungs were bad; bad enough that sex did, in fact, sometimes trigger his breathing episodes— it was somewhat of a caveat, but it was one you could at least mitigate. You didn't have to go very far for his medicine; didn't even have to leave your perch at the edge of the tub, because it was on the bathroom counter directly behind you.

After coaxing him into sitting up straight again, you held it to his lips and administered it for him. After two or three puffs, his breathing began to even out, and you replaced the little device on the counter in favour of touching his face and neck. You kissed him on the side of the mouth again and asked him, "Was that okay? Are _you_ okay?" You didn't address the question he'd posed to you, because it didn't have an answer: Nothing had 'gotten into' you; you'd just wanted him. That was all there was to it.

"I'm fine," he said, still sounding a bit breathless. "I just don't understand what—"

"Shh," you instructed, stroking his face in just the same way as when you'd first sat him down. "There's nothing to understand."

"But _why?"_

"Because I missed touching you," you told him. _"Because we both promised not to tell."_

"Rinse this shit off," he said abruptly of the soap. "Dry me off, and put me back together." When you started to apologize because you thought he was upset with you, he cut you off hastily with, "I want to do something for you, too."

You reached down into the steam for the still-running shower head in the interest of following his instructions, but you also offered him a curious look. "Something like what?" you asked, as you started to rinse off the soap (and his own recent emission, too).

"You'll see," he half-teased, with the most endearing little smile you'd ever seen on anyone.

You smiled too, but you also started to tell him, "You don't have to—"

"Fuck off," he chuckled, lifting what was left of his arms to help as best he could while you worked.

"Okay," you agreed. "...Actually, do you want me to put some conditioner in your hair first? I didn't—"

"I'll live— it can wait." 

"If you say so."

"I do."

You motioned for him to lean forward so you could rinse his back, too. "So what are you going to—" 

_"Shh."_

That made you laugh. "Alright, alright— I trust you. I guess this means you want everything back on, then?" Usually, following his shower, you would reattach his legs and his right arm; this was so that he could walk to his bedroom and smoke a cigarette while you got him ready to lie down and get a bit of extra sleep.

"Everything," he confirmed, sounding determined enough that it made you even more curious as to what he might have in mind. Anakin was always surprising you; you shouldn't have been even the least bit taken aback.

You turned off the water then, and replaced the shower head in its holster; after that, you grabbed his towel. As always, it was hanging beside the one you'd wrapped around yourself to meet him in the kitchen at Christmas. 

Neither of you said anything as you dried him off (you'd always loved drying him off, but you especially loved it today), nor as you stepped out into the hallway to retrieve his limbs. You didn't need to tell him with words that you were excited for him to know you felt that way... or at least, you very much hoped that was the case.

Any anxiety you'd been feeling that day had since dissolved. You'd washed it down the bathtub drain, it seemed, along with Anakin's soap, and the evidence of your newfound comfort with what you supposed was now more an affair than a series of subversively pleasant 'mistakes'. You should have felt terrible about it, frankly, but right at this moment, you couldn't bring yourself to regret your actions.

You were too excited about what might be in store for you, once you put Anakin back together.

**Author's Note:**

> In case you actually made it to the end of that and are now curious: He's going to take her back to the kitchen, get her pants off, and have her sit on the kitchen table for him so he can lick her pussy where he eats his dinner.


End file.
